


can't cross the same river twice

by impossiblyincredible



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: Character Study, Gen, Mentions of Dark Seattle, Mentions of Panic Attacks, POV Second Person, Post Season Eleven, Seattle Garages (Blaseball Team), Vignettes, and it's a crime i haven't written about her yet i love her so much, i just wanna get a handle on how i see goodwin
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-11
Updated: 2021-01-11
Packaged: 2021-03-15 03:07:59
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28681602
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/impossiblyincredible/pseuds/impossiblyincredible
Summary: Goodwin Morin carries on. What else is there to do?
Comments: 4
Kudos: 14





	can't cross the same river twice

**Author's Note:**

> ok 1) this is set from goodwin's arrival in the shadows through the siesta following s11, but there is remarkably little blaseball in here for a blaseball fic
> 
> 2) i'm not sure all the dark seattle lore in this matches up with what's on the wiki, but it's how i like to interpret dark seattle, so :)
> 
> title's from rain in soho by the mountain goats! hope you enjoy <3

1\. Waking up is an ultimately uneventful thing, if you really think about it. Curled up on the pitcher’s mound, you blink once, twice, squinting into the darkness of the stadium. You’ve never been here before, but you know where you are, and even if you don’t exactly know  _ how _ you know that, it's not like that doesn’t make it any less true. The Big Garage towers over you, and as you push yourself up to sit, your gaze darts over the rows and rows of empty seats, and it occurs to you that it’s almost nighttime. Explains how empty it is, you suppose.

It’s almost odd how calm you are, but as soon as you think that, you turn that thought over in your mind, wondering why you’d be anything but. The last thing you remember is… what do you remember? A bus? Asphalt scraping over your stomach, your legs, your face, as a rope blisters your fingers? The awful, bone-deep knowledge that if you don’t manage to hold on, you’ll die, forgotten? You remember that most vividly, and even in your memories, the enormity of that terror takes you by faint surprise. You file it away—it’s something to think about later.

What to do next? Do you even have anything to do? For whatever reason, you find it hard to believe that there are people in this haunted place at all, much less anyone waiting for  _ you _ . 

A thought, unprompted: Sammy would want me awake. Sammy would have been in my tent constantly, worrying and hoping and telling me about his day, annoying the medics with questions, patching up other patients if he could, telling  _ them _ about his day—

But Sammy isn’t here. Another thing you know beyond certainty, and you file that away too. 

You walk around the field, craning your neck to stare into the stands, looking for anyone else, but it’s out of formality more than anything else. Just like you’d known you were in the Big Garage, you’d also known immediately that you’re the only one here. It’s almost a relief to have so much space to breathe (do you need to do that?), as opposed to back home, where everyone was everywhere all the time, cramming into apartments and parking garages and 24-hour stores that were always open. Anything to avoid the shifting, crawling darkness outside. 

Here, it’s not so much midnight as it is twilight, the fog hanging dimly over the stadium. Climbing up into the stands doesn’t do much more for visibility, but it at least gives you something to do. You’re not usually one for idleness, right? Or at least, you’re pretty sure you aren’t. But what other choice do you have here? 

* * *

2\. You still remember Mike Townsend’s face as he faded into the shadows. This time, robbed of any noble intentions he might’ve had like before, when he willingly walked into nothingness to bring his best friend back from hell. No, this time it wasn’t his choice. You shoved him back there, elbowed your way out of the shadows, grasping for the chance to breathe like a real person again, and the worst part is that you’re not even sure you regret it. 

You remember what he looked like, though. That’s not a sight that’s going to leave you alone for a while. Mike didn’t cry when he started to fade. You know that the shadows will do that to you, how the darkness crawls down your throat and turns your chest to ash, and you know that’s why he didn’t cry, but still. You cried. Someone had to, right? He looked down at his translucent hand, looked back up at you blankly until you couldn’t see him anymore, and somehow, that was the thing that made you take deep, staggering breaths, try to get it together. 

Still, though. Sometimes when you can’t sleep, all you can think about is how empty his eyes looked when you raised a shaking hand to say goodbye.

* * *

3\. Season eleven ends, and you exhale for the first time in months. The Garages don’t win the championship, but damn if they don’t get close. Lenny pitches like a whirlwind, and for a second you forget to keep your distance as you catch his eye and grin, suddenly fiercely proud of someone you barely know, and he grins right back, showing his teeth.

Season eleven ends, and you get on a bus with Sparks, heading back to your apartment in Chinatown. The adrenaline slowly filters out of you, and when they lay their head to rest on your shoulder, you’re hard pressed to stay awake yourself. When you get back to the apartment, it’s like the exhaustion of the entire season hits you all at once, and you mumble a goodnight to Sparks, who waves faintly back as they collapse on their bed fully clothed. You’re almost asleep before your head hits the pillow.

Season eleven ends, and in the morning, your new arms are gone. You notice before you even open your eyes, and for a second, you think you’re still dreaming. You get up, look in the mirror, and hardly recognize yourself without the extra muscle, the extra fingers, the extra  _ everything _ . Stretching out your shoulder is a task all on its own, and you clasp your hands behind your back, feeling acutely like something is missing. It is missing, obviously, but it’s not like you’d expected to miss it, and that takes you by faint surprise. 

You wonder if the arms will come back when season twelve starts. You wonder why they wouldn’t. When was the last time your body was yours? 

* * *

4\. Here, they call it Dark Seattle. You almost scoff the first time someone says it, but you can’t deny that it’s a little bit true. The sun is so much weaker there, the clouds so much more dense, the people so much more... well. Dark isn’t the right word to describe the people there. Maybe paralyzed or angry. Maybe numb. 

In your head, it’s just “back home”, and every now and then, once in a blue moon, you almost miss it. It didn’t seem awful when you were a kid, is the thing, and it was only once you stumbled into  _ this _ Seattle that you realized what you were missing. Still, when people get incinerated, when the eclipses block out the sunlight, sometimes your chest chokes up with panic and you can’t remember if you ever  _ actually _ made it out at all. Sometimes you wake up, stiff with fear, unable to cry out, and in the darkness of your room it feels just like home.

Sparks buys you a nightlight to celebrate two months of living together, and very graciously pretends not to notice the tears in your eyes.

* * *

5\. When you duck under the door to the bar, it’s nearly empty. You didn’t  _ really _ expect anyone, because it’s 4pm, but it’s still a pleasant surprise. The bartender glances up at you disinterestedly, and that delights you too. No one recognizes you without the arms, it seems, and that’s freeing in a way that’s almost pathetic, if you think about it too hard. You decide not to, taking a seat at the bar and ordering a beer. 

On the opposite wall, several blue-and-red jerseys hang, rippling in the breeze coming from the open window. Huerta, Trombone, and of course, Hotdogfingers. You look for your name, but you don’t see it. 

The bartender, drying a glass on the other side of the bar, must notice you squinting at the wall. “Last one’s comin’ in the mail. Goodwin Morin, I think.”

“You know what her deal is?” You don’t know why you’re asking. Morbid curiosity, maybe? It’s not like the opinions of any of these fans matter in the grand scheme of things, but you’re a damn good pitcher, and you wonder if they think the same. You take a sip of the beer, trying not to make a face.

“Nah,” he says, shrugging. “Haven’t really followed the season this time around.”

“Ah.”

“Heard she got six arms, though.”

“She does?” Sparks always says you’re an awful liar, but this guy doesn’t even blink. You feel a swell of pride, and resolve to tell them about this the next time they bring it up.

“Some blessing or another. Hell of a thing to deal with, ain’t it?” It's his tone that gets to you. Vaguely sympathetic, mostly disinterested, but _normal_. He talks about you like he'd talk about a coworker, about the person who delivers beer in the parking lot out back. Not like a blaseball player, and certainly not anyone he'd ever idolize.

“Sure sounds like it,” you reply, keeping your tone as neutral as possible. You hate beer, but Sparks loves it, so you take another long sip, trying to see why.

It’s odd - the city seems to peek out from behind the curtains during the siesta. You don’t really know what passes for normal in this Seattle, but people are actually walking on the streets now, and the sun isn’t nearly as menacing as it is between games. Has this bartender really been through eleven seasons? He looks so worn out, like nothing on earth could surprise him anymore, like he wouldn’t even react if you told him point blank that  _ you’re _ the ghoulish player from Dark Seattle with a hell of a blessing to deal with. 

You take another sip of your drink, wrinkling your nose, and watch as he settles behind the other end of the bar and pulls out a book. The beer still sucks, but. Maybe you’ll come back here sometime.

* * *

6\. “Goodwin.”

“Hm?”

Sparks looks up from the keyboard curiously. “You play an instrument or anything?”

And oh, how to answer that? Does strumming a beat-up guitar that you found behind an old hotel count? Does plucking a few quiet chords on your bed with your best friend at the door keeping watch count? You never played  _ often _ , really, not enough to call yourself a guitar player - you didn’t even know it was called a guitar until you got here. But when Sammy played you loved it more than air, more than books and colored pencils and clean water. Does that count?

You swallow. “No, not really. Illegal, remember?”

Sparks’ face falls for a second, then lights up just as quickly. You sigh, closing your book, because you know what they’re about to say next. “Ooh, then come over here, bro. Let me teach you.”

“ _You _ barely know how to play, right? Haven't you been playing for like, six months?”

Sparks rolls their eyes. “Well, I know which keys mean which notes, and Teddy taught me some chords, so. That’s more than you. Get over here, dumbass. We’ll figure it out together.”

You let out a long-suffering, fond sigh as you put your book away, nudging Sparks to scoot over on the bench, but you smile to yourself, tucking the feel of the keys, the bench, the sunlight streaming through the window safely into your memory. This is something you want to remember.

* * *

7\. Here, people look at you funny when you say something is full of light, you’ve learned. It’s not an uncommon expression back home, if a bit old-fashioned, and it only takes a few scattered, halting explanations for you to give up and start phasing it out of your vocabulary. 

How to explain it? How to explain that when the sun only shines at half of this sun’s strength and for just three months every year, scraps of firelight, lighters, lightbulbs all feel priceless? How to explain the lengths someone will go to for a match? Light isn’t a basic human need, but it feels like one, and that in and of itself makes it more desperately seductive than anything else.

For something to be full of light is for it to exude safety, to shine in the corners of the shitty motel room, to point at the spider and offer to take it out without killing it and say “look, that’s all it is. You’re gonna be okay.”

That’s what Sammy was. Full of light. Sometimes, there are days when you don’t think about Sammy, what with everything going on, but there are also days when you miss him so much, you can’t breathe, the weight of it pressing down on your chest.

There’s so much  _ music _ here, is the thing, and you can vividly picture Sammy’s reaction to even just one Garages rehearsal. How his eyes would light up, the look on his face when he’d strum Arturo’s bass for the first time, how he’d be a natural at picking up notes and rhythms and melodies, learning this language you can’t quite manage to believe is even real.

It should’ve been him. That’s what you can’t get out of your head, every time you wish he was here with you. He  _ could’ve _ been here with you, but he didn’t make it, and you, for whatever reason, did.

You think you’re going to spend the rest of your life atoning for it.

**Author's Note:**

> thanks so much for reading! leave a comment if you like, or come talk to me on tumblr @goodwinmorin!


End file.
